


Sessions

by ebbj9891



Series: In Quest Of Something [34]
Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, M/M, Post-Series, Therapy, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-04 04:28:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2935478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ebbj9891/pseuds/ebbj9891
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For over a year now, Justin has been dutifully going to therapy to try and work through a whole host of issues. The sessions are often confronting but ultimately helpful, and Justin feels as though he's making significant progress. However, there are still many remaining issues to contend with. As their eightieth session commences, Justin's therapist asks that they explore his relationship with Brian and some lingering issues that exist there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sessions

**Author's Note:**

> Happy New Year everyone! I hope everyone has a lovely beginning to 2015. I've been doubly blessed with some free time and inspiration, which has allowed me to finish writing this fic (it's been a work in progress for longer than I'd like to admit!). I thought it would be a nice one to post at this time of year, seeing as it deals with Justin reflecting on the past and looking forward into the future. I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> p.s. This fic relates significantly to the events in _Miles to Go_ , so if you haven't already, I would recommend reading that fic first :)

"It was only a fever," Justin says, and so begins his eightieth therapy session.

He has counted each and every one, almost obsessively. There's a tally he keeps in the back of his favourite sketchbook, the one that he totes all around the city, the one that's now well beyond well-worn. The tally is scribed in every conceivable material: multi-coloured inks, pencil, charcoal, paint, some of Gus' glittery gel pens. Seventy-nine marks so far and today he'll be able to add an eightieth.

Justin pushed himself, and pushed himself, and pushed himself. For six whole months, he made himself attend sessions twice a week, though for the past eight months the sessions have been weekly. Each and every one has been intense, some have been downright infuriating, but for the most part, they've been insightful. Helpful, too - Justin really feels as though he's making progress. Jo seems to think so too; last week, she suggested that they scale back the sessions' frequency from once per week to once per month. Justin is quite proud of having gotten this far, especially given his weak track-record with therapy back in Pittsburgh.

But before he can make that eightieth mark in his sketchbook or agree to drop down to once a month, he has this hour to get through. And today's going to be a doozy - he's here to talk about Brian. More specifically, he's here to talk about Brian's disastrous fever which lasted an entire week, ending only a few days ago. Justin hears himself say _it was only a fever_ and winces. The words are thick with forced rationalisation. Jo catches it instantly, of course. She leans forward with that intrigued expression that makes Justin feel vulnerable and safe all at once. Vulnerable, because it feels like she's about to come after him with a scalpel, make an incision, and perform exploratory surgery on him. Safe, because he sees that she gets him, understands him, recognises him for who he is. Justin has a mental list of people capable of this; every time Jo looks at him in that fascinated way, he visualises writing her name beneath Brian's and Daphne's.

He does a lot of visualising lately. It's one of Jo's most beloved strategies. Justin has adopted it and found it really works. Of course it does - he's always been very visual. Jo sees this. Jo gets this.

Jo is onto him.

She raises an eyebrow at him. "Only a fever?"

"Only a fever," Justin echoes, uncertainty creeping in. "He was home sick for a week."

Nodding along, she prompts, "And the last time Brian was sick was..."

Justin swallows, trying to rid himself of the toxic taste that accompanies the words he's about to speak: "It was when he had cancer."

Of course, a fever is nothing like cancer. Justin has been forcibly reminding himself of this almost constantly. Still, it was uncomfortably reminiscent of that time. Brian was clearly out of commission, but stubbornly trying not to be. As soon as Cynthia clued in to his poor health, she insisted he return home and stay there until he was better. Surprisingly, Brian agreed to that... but the agreeableness stopped there. For the first day of his sick leave, he refused to go to bed and insisted on working from his home office. That night, close to midnight, he relented and came to bed. After collapsing into it bonelessly, Brian remained knocked out for most of the rest of the week. His days were spent intermittently sleeping, thrashing about in bed, or sprawled on the couch bitching and moaning. Despite Justin's best efforts, there was nothing that could be done to lift Brian's spirits. In fact, most of his attempts were immediately rebuked: _Stop fucking coddling me. Fuck off back to your studio - you don't want to get sick too, do you? Don't you have better things to do than play the part of the pretty little housewife?_

Justin managed to grin and bear it for the first five days. Instead of playing the part of the pretty little housewife, he forced himself to act as the tough-as-nails nursemaid: _Shut the fuck up and drink your tea. Lie still and stop whining so I can check your temperature. Stop worrying about work and watch the fucking movie, Brian, or so help me-_

It's a strategy to which Brian responds well. He typically complies with minimal reticence. But Justin doesn't always like the tough love act. Sure, it's useful enough for getting Brian to shut his trap and behave himself, but Justin would also like to be allowed to play nice from time to time. He'd like to be able to hold Brian and comfort him during the fever-induced nightmares without being nudged away and accused of 'babying' his sickly partner. He'd like to be able to ask Brian how he's feeling and sympathise with him without being glared at. He'd like to act with all the affection and adoration he feels for Brian, rather than forcing himself into the role of emotionless stickler. It makes him feel like a marionette, suspended on strings, being tugged uncomfortably in unnatural directions.

On the sixth day, Justin woke up to the sound of Brian vomiting. He hadn't opened his eyes yet, so he was unable to fully register where or when they were, and the sound propelled him back to Pittsburgh, four years earlier, to mornings, noons, and nights spent in the loft bearing witness to Brian's struggle to recover. The recollection sent him bolting upright in outright panic, only to be reminded that they were somewhere else entirely. Moments later, Brian returned to their bedroom and slumped into bed, turning his back to Justin. Staring at his partner's back, flushed and smeared with sweat, and still smelling the faint scent of sick was too much for Justin. He retreated to the bathroom, closed the door, caved against it, and started to cry.

The sixth and seventh days were spent in utter silence. On the eighth, when Brian returned to work looking renewed, Justin expected to feel some relief. It never came.

As he pours all of this out to Jo, she listens and writes, writes and listens, her gaze openly sympathetic. Justin tells her all about the cancer, which he's never quite done before; not with her, not with anyone. As the session starts to draw to a close, he finds that his voice is growing hoarse and his throat is scratching. As he reaches for his glass of water, Jo sits up straight, sets her notepad aside, and announces, "You need to talk to Brian about this."

"Isn't that what I have you for?" Justin asks snarkily, which doesn't seem to impress Jo. Crumbling under the weight of her stare, he sighs and laments, "I can't."

"Justin," she says, very gently, "From what you've told me, you and Brian have a very close, caring relationship. I see no reason why you should be lying to him."

"I'm not lying," Justin protests.

But Jo isn't fooled. Firmly, she retaliates, "It's a lie of omission, and you know it."

Justin sighs. "Okay, fine, it's a lie of omission. But I can't just-"

"You can," Jo insists calmly, "And you will."

She glances at her watch. "Three minutes to go. Let's talk homework: I want you to go somewhere and think about this. Think about what you need to say to Brian and how you're going to say it. I think you'll find that he'll appreciate your honesty. Maybe you can think about whether there's anything else that you need to tell him."

Defensiveness shoots sharply through Justin. Hotly, he retorts, "What is that supposed to mean?"

Jo peers at him, perplexed. "It wasn't supposed to mean anything. I only thought that it might be helpful to cover as much ground as possible with this conversation, seeing as I know it's hard to get started with this sort of thing. You might as well get as much out of it as you can, you know?"

Justin nods. There's a nagging feeling in his stomach; it bewilders him. He can't quite place why it's there or what it's about.

Voicing what's on his mind, Jo prompts, "Is there anything else you feel like you need to tell him?"

"Maybe," he says, glancing out the window towards the park. The nagging feeling intensifies. Justin manages to identify it, and as he does, his heart grows heavy and panic laces insidiously through his veins. He takes in a ragged breath and says softly, "Something happened a long time ago. I never told him."

Fortunately, Jo doesn't press him on this. Maybe it's that they're running out of time, or maybe it's that she senses that he's not ready. Instead, she asks, "You do feel like you can talk to him, right?"

"Of course!" Justin slips his fingertips inside the sleeves of his sweater and plays idly with the hems. "I used to feel like I couldn't talk about certain things... but not anymore. We're so much more open than we used to be."

"So use that," Jo says encouragingly. "You know you love each other, you know you trust each other. Go home tonight and talk to him about this."

Staggered, Justin echoes, _"Tonight?"_

Jo smiles, clearly amused. "You're an ambitious individual. I know you like to push yourself, Justin, so go on and push yourself. Talk to Brian _tonight."_

Justin rolls his eyes and huffs. Jo merely chuckles and hands him a card for their next appointment. He snatches it and mutters, "See you next week."

"I'll look forward to it," she says sunnily, with an air of confidence that suggests that she knows she's speaking for the both of them.

*

So it has to be tonight. Tonight it must be.

Fuck.

Since he started seeing Jo, Justin has followed every last bit of advice that she has given him, and every last bit of it has worked. He doesn't want to fuck that perfect score up now. She often sets him tasks (or, perhaps, challenges) and they always prove to be helpful. Justin hopes that this one will be similarly rewarding. So, after leaving the building, he crosses the park to the West side and catches the subway way, way, way uptown, to Fort Tryon Park, one of his most beloved spots in the city. The light is brilliant, the air is crisp, and the surroundings are as stunning as they are serene. Justin finds his favourite bench and makes himself comfortable. This is arguably the hardest task/challenge he's been assigned yet, so he suspects it will take some time and effort to plan out what needs to be said.

True enough, Justin remains preoccupied until almost sundown. He writes in his sketchbook, filling pages with paragraphs. He talks under his breath, deciding that he'll just have to accept that, today, _he's_ the crazy guy in the park. He sketches: Brian then, Brian now. Then he goes back further, to that awful night, to hands grabbing at him... sickened, Justin rips out the page and scrunches it up, then hurls it in the trash. He's shocked with himself at first - he _never_ does that. He stares at the jagged edge of what remains of the page and his stomach turns. He forces the memory away _(just one more time,_ he tells himself) and returns to drafting his confession.

Even by the time the light has started to flood orange, he doesn't feel completely sure. But the temperature is dipping rapidly and he's craving home, so home he heads on the subway, heading way, way, way downtown. When he returns to their apartment, Brian isn't there. Justin checks the calendar in the kitchen and is reminded that Brian has a client dinner to attend. It will probably be hours before he's home. Unsure whether he should be disappointed or relieved, Justin holes up in the living room with a bowl of ramen and a movie. He doesn't taste the food and doesn't take in what the movie is about. There's too much on his mind - it's not just distracting, it's utterly blinding. Everything that exists beyond their impending conversation ceases to matter. Eventually he gives up on the tasteless ramen and turns off the movie. In the midst of their silent, dark apartment, Justin continues rehearsing what needs to be said.

By the time Brian comes home, Justin has rehearsed his speech to perfection and has also anesthetised himself with a few drinks. He listens as Brian recounts his evening, trying to take in the information as best he can. Most of it goes over his head. His attempts to conceal this fall flat; Brian notices almost immediately and asks with concern, "Are you alright?"

"I need to talk to you about something," Justin says, finding that the words come out all fuzzy as he talks around the whisky he pilfered from Brian's pet stash. 

Despite that, they stop Brian in his tracks. He stares at Justin, tense from head to toe, and asks blankly, "What is it?"

"Can you sit down?"

It's merely an invitation but Brian clearly interprets it differently. He rests his hands atop the back of Justin's favourite armchair, leans on it, and gazes at Justin with trepidation. It's then that Justin realises: everything he's just said could very easily suggest that something is  _really_ wrong. With horror, he imagines what must be running through Brian's mind. Another affair? Another break-up? Another breakdown? Mortified, he blurts out, "It's not what you... what you might be thinking. I saw Jo today and she wants me to talk to you about some stuff."

Brian continues staring expressionlessly for some time. Then that facade falters a fraction and he asks softly, "Are we okay?" 

"We're better than okay," Justin whispers, feeling a lump swelling in his throat. "At least, I hope so. Can you please come and sit down?"

"Sure." Brian shrugs off his coat and slips off his shoes. As he does so, he asks, "Was your appointment with Jo...?" 

"It was..." Justin trails off, finding himself at a loss as to how to describe it. After a spell of contemplation, he lands on a word that covers all manner of sins: "Productive."

"Good," Brian says, ever encouraging. He slips out of his jacket and rolls up his sleeves, then quickly drops a kiss to Justin's forehead. "I'm glad."

Justin can only hope that gladness will remain in tact, but he doubts it. As Brian sits down next to him, Justin chuckles nervously and jokes, "I feel like I'm a schoolkid, being sent home with an assignment."

He grasps Brian's tie and starts to unknot it. As Justin slides it off, liking the way the silk slips through his fingers, Brian smirks and teases, "And what is your assignment, Taylor?" 

"I'm meant to tell you certain things." Justin edges closer to Brian, who is angled with his arm draped over the back of the couch. Justin rests his hand atop the crook of Brian's arm and then pulls his legs up, hugging them to his chest. "There are a couple of things we haven't talked about that Jo thinks we need to."

It takes an extraordinary amount of focus, but Justin manages to glimpse a spark of panic in Brian's eyes. It's gone in a flash, though - with an enviable sense of calm, Brian inquires, "Such as?"

"Such as how I felt when you had that fever." Justin glances at the bottle of whisky, but he's holding himself so rigidly that he's afraid to reach for it. Besides, he's already too far south of 'tipsy'. If he gravitates any closer to 'wasted', he won't be able to get through this. 

In lieu of a drink, Justin takes a deep breath. It steadies him. As he exhales, it all comes pouring out: how Brian's week of illness awoke fears in him that he hadn't realised still existed, how Brian's refusal to let Justin care for him forced the fears to escalate, and worst of all, how the fears haven't died down yet.

"I'm scared of you getting sick again," Justin says, almost choking on the words because he fucking hates saying them so much. "I'm even more scared that you'd hide it like you did last time."

"I wouldn't," Brian insists forcefully. "I swear, I wouldn't. I can't help it if I get sick again, but as of right now I'm perfectly healthy. If that were ever to change, you'd be the first to know."

His gaze is sharp and intense - almost intimidatingly so. But interwoven with all of that is a confronting sense of sincerity. Justin tries to smile at him; it doesn't work, but Brian seems to appreciate the attempt. He rests his right hand on Justin's knees and strokes his fingers lightly back and forth, back and forth. It soothes Justin enough that he feels ready to say, "I want you to try to let me take care of you, too. I'm not trying to coddle you or baby you, I promise. I just want to make you feel better."

Grimacing guiltily, Brian says, "I know. I just fucking hate being sick. I shouldn't have taken it out on you - I'm sorry."

Justin smiles gratefully and kisses his cheek. "It's okay. I don't blame you - it must have been horrible, being that sick."

Brian gags. "Don't remind me."

Humming sympathetically, Justin slides his hand up and down Brian's forearm. It feels good, being this close again, snuggled up on the couch and talking everything out. And then, like a grenade, comes the dreaded question: "Is there anything else?"

Justin feels those four words like knives driving into him, piercing his flesh, drawing blood. He swallows the pain and admits, "Yes. And it's worse, I think. It happened years ago and I never told you. I never told anyone."

It takes him a while to muster the courage. He looks away, stares out the window, at the lights spanning from across the street well into the distance. He stares at them until they blur into indistinguishable smears of luminescence, and only then does he feel even remotely ready to confess.

As soon as Justin starts to explain what  _really_ happened with Sapperstein, Brian's fingers cease caressing his knees. They freeze. They remain stuck to Justin's knees, tense, feeling as though they'd like to leave but can't quite figure out how. At least, that's how Justin reads it - but maybe he's just projecting. He'd like to leave, but there doesn't seem to be any way out of this. He's halfway through his confession now; he's rambling, his words are slippery and shaky, the lights are blurred beyond recognition, and there's a swelling lump in his throat, threatening to turn into tears, which Justin can't deal with. He can't cry. He can't, he can't, he can't. 

But he does. The tears begin to fall as he admits, "I've tried to forget it. I forced myself to. I haven't let myself think about it... at least, not consciously. Unconsciously, though..." 

It's hard to explain but he gives it his best shot. He swallows and asks, "Have you ever had one of those dreams where you're running and you trip and fall? And then you wake up and it's sort of happening, even though you're lying down?"

In his blurred peripheral, he sees Brian nodding. Justin breathes in deep and continues, "It's like that. Sometimes I wake up and I can't really remember what I was dreaming, but I can feel it - I feel like I've been drugged all over again. I wake up and I can still feel everything swimming."

Suddenly, Brian touches his palm to Justin's cheek, cupping it tenderly and wiping tears away with a smooth glide of his thumb. Justin looks at him and feels something inside of him release. Freed from his self-imposed confines, he confesses, "That hardly ever happens, but when it does, I start thinking about what could have happened that night. It's terrifying. And I get so scared that I shut down and force it to not affect me anymore, but..."

Since the rest seems obvious, he falls silent. Brian's hand moves into his hair, stroking it comfortingly. Justin closes his eyes and soaks up the sensation. It's fragmented when Brian asks, "Why didn't you tell me?"

Even though he says it tenderly, to Justin it feels anything but. He struggles to explain it; it comes out shaky and strained as he says, "I didn't want anyone to know. I was so fucking stupid, getting myself into that kind of situation. I didn't want to be the victim all over again - it was bad enough being poor little Justin with his head bashed in." 

"You were never that to me," Brian says abruptly. Looking slightly aggravated, he asserts, "You know, if you'd told me, I could have looked after you. You're not the only one who wants to do that."

Justin forces another smile. "I know. But I felt like you'd see me as some helpless, clueless-" 

Before he can voice any of the other ugly words in his arsenal, Brian interrupts him by insisting, "I would  _never."_

Grateful for his iron-clad assuredness, Justin leans in and kisses Brian's cheek. Breathily, he says, "I love you."

"I love you, too," Brian replies. He sighs and looks at Justin with a worn, wary gaze. "And from here on in, we're going to do better at this. We have to tell each other everything - if something happens, if something's wrong, we need to be honest about it."

"Agreed," Justin says, laughing shakily, even though there's nothing really funny about any of this. That must be the relief kicking in at long last, rendering him slightly giddy.

"You would tell me, right?" Brian frowns at him doubtfully. "If something like that happened again - god fucking forbid - if it happened now..."

"I'd tell you," Justin promises, "I swear I would." 

"Good," Brian says, pressing a light kiss to Justin's temple. "I... Are you okay?"

Justin nods vigorously. "I'm okay."

"And us? Are we really okay?"

"Of course we are."

"Promise?" 

"Promise."

Brian sighs and draws Justin into his arms, enveloping him snugly. Justin closes his eyes and buries his face in Brian's shoulder, absorbing his warmth and breathing in his scent. It's all so familiar and so incredibly soothing. He can feel Brian's fingers threaded through his hair and grazing his scalp, he has Brian's arm coiled tightly around his waist, his heart is pulsing through his shirt, reaching for Brian's, the reverberations meeting in the middle. It's enough, Justin tells himself. It's enough, it's enough, it's-

"I was there," Brian whispers, out of nowhere. At first, that's all he says, and Justin is left wondering:  _you were where?_ Then he presses his lips to Justin's forehead and confesses softly, "I visited you when you were in the hospital."

Justin freezes. He wonders if this is how Brian felt when he made his confession: shocked into stillness, numbed from head to toe. A million questions flood his mind, but before he can ask any of them, Brian says, "It was late at night, when nobody was around. It... it was every night. I wanted to see you... I wanted to know that you were safe."

Then, with an edge of desperate humour, he adds, "Since we're trying to be honest with each other... I guess you should know."

As Justin tries to process this, Brian looks away, guilt swimming across his features. Softly, he says, "I know it mattered to you. I-"

"Of course it mattered to me," Justin blurts out. Recalling all the time spent longing for Brian, he exclaims, "Why didn't you come in? You could have, you-"

"I wanted to," is all Brian says, and even though that's not really an answer, Justin decides to accept it as one. He can imagine why Brian didn't come in and even though it hurts a little, it pales in comparison to the immense gratitude he feels now that he knows that Brian was there. Maybe not by his side, maybe not openly with him, but  _there._ That gratitude heightens when Brian hugs him closer and murmurs, "I wanted to come in, curl up around you, and keep you safe. You have no idea how much. I wanted to be right next to you, I swear, but I... I couldn't."

Justin pulls back a little and looks at Brian. This time, he doesn't have to focus to catch a glimpse of anything: it's all right there, plainly laid out on the surface, written boldly - all the love and longing he felt then, and all the love and longing he's feeling now. The gratitude starts to sing inside of him. Justin takes Brian's hands and guides him to follow as he lies down. Brian follows along fluidly, wrapping his arms around Justin and holding him closer than close, with his chest snug to Justin's back and his face buried in Justin's hair. Justin wriggles in even closer and murmurs, "Like this?"

"Like this," Brian whispers, squeezing Justin tightly. Justin closes his eyes again and sinks into it -  _all_ of it: Brian's warm, secure embrace, and this new place they've found themselves in. It seems so far removed from where they were a few days ago, or even just earlier this morning. This place feels safer, surer.

There are all sorts of unexpected things, but by and large, Justin finds that they fall into two categories: those that break him, and those that make him. Like, for example, the car backfiring that day, which propelled him into panic and landed him back in therapy. For a while, Justin cursed that day in the woods, believing it would break him. But it's led him here, to this night, to these confessions, to this new place marked by promises of honesty, to the safeness and soundness of their enduring embrace. Maybe that day wasn't designed to break him, after all; maybe it was one of those unexpected things that makes him. Like Brian showing up to dance with him at prom. Like hearing Brian say  _I love you_ for the first time. Like moving to New York and finding his place in the world. _That's_ what this feels like: like something incredibly important, like something that might help return him from the place of uncertainty where he's been trapped for so many months now.

When he sees Jo next week, he'll tell her:  _I feel like I'm getting better._ He'll admit: _I haven't been okay, but there's nothing wrong with that. And anyway, I'm going to be._ He'll say with pride: _I'm ready for monthly sessions._

As he burrows deeper into Brian's welcoming embrace, Justin runs through each of the eighty sessions and considers all that Jo has helped him to work through. That day in the woods, he saw himself as some damaged, broken scrap of a person. Today was equally confronting a day, but he doesn't feel nearly as weak as he did then. He feels shaken, but stronger at heart. Some hideous person planted a bomb at Babylon, but he survived it. There have been other people who have preyed on him and people like him, but he survived that too, and now he only has to figure out a way to deal with it. Things with Brian aren't always easy, but they love each other, and they're going to try harder. Things are going to get better. That has been his goal from the start, and it will remain his goal from here on out.

Justin expects that Jo will ask him to visualise it and verbalise this, or maybe she'll want him to illustrate it. He can already imagine what he'll conjure up: a pathway, solid underneath his feet, and lit up, illuminated from wherever he stands now right through to the horizon. Justin isn't sure where it will lead, but that's beside the point. The path is there, it's waiting for him to walk it, and he's ready to do so, hand-in-hand with Brian, the way it ought to be.

**The End**


End file.
